What if?
by AhoyAmelia
Summary: ...Sherlock had a secret wife? Author formally known as 'Aeron Lisbeth Holmes'. HUGELY based on Heather2910's story by a different name. Pre-Johnlock to Established Relationship. AU, OC, Post-RB, in a time where things have gotten back to normal. Also a wee bit Mystrade. Just putting that out there. Will probably never end. Biweekly update. Okay enough summary, please enjoy.
1. Sherlock's Secret

"Quickly now, John!" Sherlock yelled up the stairs.

He was in quite a hurry. They had not had a fresh case in weeks, and Sherlock was ready to pounce. John on the other hand, had taken this opportunity to work extra shifts at the clinic, his last one being a particularly long graveyard. Though of course his flat mate had not taking this into account, wondering why John was still in bed at half past twelve.

Grumbling, John gave a muffled reply of, "I'm almost ready," through his bedroom door.

For the next ten minutes the detective paced anxiously at the bottom of the steps.

In no time at all after that, the two were in a cab, discussing the case ahead of them.

"So…where are we going?" John asked timidly, for he had forgotten to ask before running out the door, in tow of Sherlock.

"37 Broomwall Place. John, do keep up." Sherlock huffed in annoyance. But as he said it, he could help but wonder why 37 Broomwall Place rang in his memory. He felt that in held some importance, though he couldn't quite see it, as if it was some insignificant detail that he had deleted. He discarded the thought and arrived at the crime scene.

Walking up to Lestrade,

"Ah, Sherlock, John," Lestrade spoke, the two men reaching him, "So sorry to bring you here on such short notice."

"It's fine Greg," John responded, levelheaded. Sherlock however cut right to the chase.

"Details." He said harshly, walking towards the entrance to the building.

"Right" Lestrade replied, trying to catch up. "Female, found dead in her home by her daughter. Daughter's alibi is that she was with her father from nine to eleven, only to come home and find the body. Servants confirmed her story. The woman was stabbed multiple times in the lower back. The intruder must have come in through the fire escape, as the servants had not let anyone in prior to the attack."

Lestrade would have continued, but Sherlock put up a hand to silence him. They had also arrived at the crime scene.

"No." Sherlock whispered. "No, no, no, no."

John looked over at the detective, surprised at what he saw. Sherlock's eyes were glossy, as if filled with tears, his body was shaking slightly (perhaps of fear, John noted grimly), and his hands were in fists. This was not something he had seen before. John had always known him to be calm, collected, calculating; yet at the moment he looked like a lost child. Worried, he reached out to Sherlock, fingers barely touching the sleeve of his jacket before Sherlock went off.

"Female, 34, the late Emily Holmes."

"What the fuck?" Was all Anderson could think to say just as Sherlock began running- no, _sprinting _down the corridor to the stairs.

Distraught, John, Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan exchanged looks before heading after him, John taking the lead.

John had spent an awful lot of time chasing after Sherlock Holmes over the years. Through alleyways, crime scenes, the greater part of London, and most recently through the depths of his heart. In the end, John had always cared about Sherlock, but it wasn't until that very moment, watching tears threaten to fall down his cheeks, that John realized he truly _loved_ him. And now, running down the stairs, chasing after him once again, he almost smiled. Almost.

Reaching the bottom, John stumbled, almost completely falling, before catching him self and running through the open door to the lobby. Once there he stopped, stunned by what he saw. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

Sherlock.

Looking around anxiously trying to find something.

Sherlock.

Falling to his knees once he found what he was looking for, and screaming:

"Lisbeth!"

John pulled his eyes away from Sherlock, looking up to see what he was seeing. A crowd; police officers, medics, and the likes crowding around something. The crowd parting just enough that he could make out a girl, no older than 16 wrapped in an orange shock blanket.

Her head drew up at the sound of Sherlock's voice, her tear stained face brightening. She jumped up, blanket flying off behind her, and ran towards the detective, whose arms were up in the air. She ran into his arms, and nothing could prepare John for what happened next:

"Dad!"


	2. Lisbeth's Answers

"_Dad!"_

Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson had reached John just in time to watch the girl run into Sherlock's arm's, proclaiming him to be her father. John was at a loss for words. There, right in front of him, was Sherlock Holmes, known _virgin, _and his daughter. Sherlock Holmes, the man John had just promised himself to love, kept this secret from him for six _years_. He was stunned, and more importantly, he had questions. But all that could possibly come out of his mouth right now was; "What?"

Sherlock, still in his embrace, let go of Lisbeth, and turned to face John. Standing, he made his way over to him, hand never leaving his daughter's. He stopped just before John, his mad man grin slowly dropping as he saw John's face. The first thing John thought to ask was:

"Why is she ginger?"

It was true; Sherlock Holmes' daughter was straight ginger. Long orange ringlets hung around to frame her elegant face, the length reaching her lower back. Sherlock's eyes widened, and his face began to look slightly pink. Lisbeth, however, smiled brightly at John and said to him, and the others listening, something that they would never let Sherlock live down.

"Didn't you know that my dad's naturally ginger?"

Anderson was the first to laugh, the other yarders quickly following suit. Even John chuckled. Sherlock, well Sherlock just looked embarrassed.

"Freak dyes his hair! Don't tell me he curls it too?" Anderson remarked, laughing all the while.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name, Mr.…?" Lisbeth asked sweetly, as if enjoying the joke.

"James Anderson."

"Well Mr. Anderson, would you like to see a photo? I have one in my wallet."

Anderson smirked, "Yeah sure." And approached Lisbeth, who was reaching around to her back pocket. "I think I like this kid, not like you at all, Freak." He commented to Sherlock, who was standing silently during this whole exchange.

Anderson turned back to face the girl, when suddenly all he got was a fist in his face. Falling to his knees in pain, and clutching his nose, he looked back up the Lisbeth. She wore a scowl on her face, one matching the only consulting detective's.

"Don't say shit about my dad, you incompetent piece of filth." She spat at him angrily. John and Lestrade exchanged a look before they both burst out laughing. Donovan grumbled and helped Anderson up, before they retreated to the crime scene upstairs.

Sherlock smiled at his daughter and gave her a squeeze, before turning his attention back to John.

"Surely that isn't your only question John." Sherlock countered. "But I'm afraid your questions will have to wait."

Turning his attention back to Lisbeth, "Lisbeth, sweetie, starting packing, it seems you'll need to say with John and I for the time being. Stay with Lestrade, and I'll come pick you up later. I have some things I need to attend to." He kissed the top of her head tenderly before turning and retreating quickly. They watched him exit through the door before looking at one another.

Lisbeth looked over at Lestrade before breaking out into a smile. "Uncle Greg!"

Lestrade eloped her into a hug, "Beth, darling."

John looked ticked. "You knew?" He asked through grinding teeth.

Lestrade looked ashamed, and a bit embarrassed. He was ashamed he didn't tell John about Sherlock's wife and kid, but more importantly, he was embarrassed to tell him how he knew. And of course Lisbeth had to answer for him.

"Do you think he's my uncle Greg because he's one of Sherlock's friends? He's my uncle because he's practically Sherlock's brother-in-law."

Really, what she said told him nothing, but to John, it told him everything.

"You and-?" John asked Lestrade seriously. Lestrade looked sheepish, but nodded. Lisbeth smiled.

"John, I do believe that this would be a wonderful time to say, 'I can't believe you got in a Holmes' brother's pants before I did!'" She laughed wickedly at the surprised look on both their faces.

John stuttered helplessly, words coming out like, "How", "You", "Just met", "Can't believe", and finally after a long sigh, "Please don't tell him."

She let go of Greg, waltzed over to John, and decided to go and hug him too. John was surprised, he had only hugged a Holmes once, and that was when Sherlock had just come back from the dead, and it was following a rather nasty punch in the face. He returned the hug by giving her a light squeeze. She parted from him, and made a gesture of sealing her lips shut. John smiled at this, and Lisbeth smiled in return, mirroring the great detective.

"So," John started, "about that picture…"

Lisbeth laughed. Reaching behind her she pulled out her wallet (for real this time) and slid out a small folded photo, and handed it to John. Lestrade ran over, almost knocking John over, so he could see too. It was an old photo, and in it was just Sherlock, most likely in his twenties. His arms were folded in front of him, as if he was resting on a table. His eyes were clear, grey/blue, piercing at the person taking the photo. And finally, finally, his hair, short and slightly spiked, was brilliantly cooper red, and suited him perfectly.

John smiled at the photograph. It was amazing to look at. The detective so young, innocent, and _ginger_. He looked over at Lestrade, who had out his camera phone, taking a picture.

"Keep it."

John was startled at her words. "Keep it? I couldn't…"

"Trust me, I've got loads more. This is what he looks like in all my baby photos." She smiled at him. "Keep it."

John smiled, sliding the photo into his wallet, before saying, "Thank you."

"Now come on, we got a crime scene to deduce, and you've got some questions that need to be answered."

Lestrade stopped her before she could go anywhere. "Now look, missy, this is your mother we're talking about, you are not going in there."

"You need a Holmes. Sherlock's busy, so you need me." Lisbeth argued.

Lestrade looked defeated. She was right. He was never going to do this without her. So, he stepped aside and let her enter the elevator. John was not to excited about this plan. He gave Greg a look before heading in as well. The elevator climbed the building as they stood in silence. A ding notified them of their arrival. Lisbeth put her game face on before exiting. John noted it was much like Sherlock's, detached and emotionless. Maybe that's what makes them rule over a crime scene with an iron fist.

Lisbeth approached the body swiftly, and knelt before in momentarily, before giving out her deductions.

"Boring." She scoffed at her mother's body. "It was the maid. Angela, I believe her name is. You'll notice she and most of Mother's jewelry are missing."

She turned away from the body and made her way over to Lestrade. "You'll find her in her room, _decomposing_. The act of actually murdering another person has sickened her to suicide. Third floor, second room on your left. I believe we are done here."

Lisbeth gave him one last look before walking off. On her way out the door, she tugged on John's sleeve for him to follow her. Curving down and around the hallways they came across a large master suite. Lisbeth took out a key and unlocked the door. Inside the room was simple, organized even, with very few possessions. Taking out a small suitcase from one of the closets, she began to pack. John noted that nothing she through in the suitcase was clothing. Laptop, Ipod, toiletries, an adorable stuffed bear, a few books. When she was done, taking less than five minutes mind you, she zipped up the case and through on a large coat. It reminded John of Sherlock's, though it was feminine and slightly blue. Grabbing a red scarf and her suitcase, she my her way towards the door, motioning for John to follow. The two made their way downstairs in silence. Walking out the door, John hailed a cab, and they both climbed in. Lisbeth was the first to speak.

"Questions, John. I have answers. This may be your only chance, seeing as my father will never speak of this with you. I advice you to start asking."

John was taking back by her sudden words, but it did not detour him from the questions racing through his head.

"How-How old are you?" John asked, breath shaking. Lisbeth smirked.

"16. He had me at 19 years old."

"19? Wasn't he in school?"

"Like Mycroft, and myself, my father completed secondary school at a very young age. I believe he was 15 at the time, and immediately graduated university at 17. Mycroft on the other hand, did not finish secondary until he was 16, and graduated with the credentials to be in the position he is in now, at 21. Myself however left secondary at 13 and just recently completed university at Cambridge. So, as you see, by the time Sherlock was 19 he was out of school, living on his own, and had everything necessary to start a family."

John couldn't help but be shocked. "Why was he not living with you now?"

"Now that is tricky. You see, after my mother gave birth to me, my father lived happily with us for a long time. It wasn't until he was about 25 that he met Lestrade. He had always had a thing with crime scenes, and met Lestrade whilst trying to sneak into one. Soon they entered into their current agreement. Sherlock had not had the chance to tell Lestrade about his family, until it was too late. You see he made a lot of violent enemies as a Consulting Detective and he knew that there was a chance that they could use his family against him. At this point my mother and father's marriage was a sham. She did not agree to his antics if you will. He detached himself from us and went on with his way of live. Tragic, yes, but it was really the best for everyone. He visited. All the time actually. In disguise, and at a young age I loved it. Not long after however, he slipped into using. Cocaine was his favorite. He'd come over buzzed from a high and mother would call Lestrade to pick him up. The only reason he stopped was to keep his agreement with Greg.

"But nevertheless, this life was not good for him. He once told me he contemplated suicide before he met you. You, John Watson, I consider to be the saving grace of my father. Without you, I don't know what would have happened."

She looked distraught, lost in her memories. Maybe her own mind palace. John thought it was a lot to take in. But one part stuck to him the most. _Contemplated suicide before he met you._ The mere thought made John's stomach churn. Lisbeth seemed to come out of it, and continued her story. John's ears perked, and he listened intently.

"Now there is you John. I hope, by the events of the 'fall', as you call it, that you would understand how my father thinks. He comes across you, he befriended you, you live with him, and you are now a target. By falling off Bart's that day, he saved your life, by coming back, however, you are now in, if not the same, a worse position than before. Did you observe him as he left earlier? He was convinced that my mother was murdered by one of Moriarty's missed henchman. He missed the sighs, and panicked. He panicked for me, but he panicked for you as well. You are important to my father."

"Then why did he run out?"

Lisbeth smiled. "That you will see right now." She passed a few bills to the cabbie, and opened the car door. John hadn't realized that they stopped. He climbed out of the car, and joined Lisbeth outside 221B.

**Ack, it's 2020 words. Also, I will be making the image for this story the image I used to describe Sherlock's photo. I hope you enjoyed, and please REVIEW! I feel like no one is reading this and it makes me sad. I love you reader. Next chapter soon.**


	3. Sherlock's Reasoning

The moment Sherlock stepped out of the building, the clock started ticking. He knew that Lisbeth would defy his orders and do as she pleased. Which at this point, Sherlock believed that it would go something like this:

She'd reveal his shortcomings to John. Such as the fact Lestrade had known about his wife and daughter, but not John.

She'd expose a few unnecessary secrets.

Even though it was her mother, Lisbeth would still solve the murder.

She would eventually pack. But would rely on Mycroft's money for clothing.

She would answer any and all of John's questions, and/or tell John Sherlock's life story.

Sherlock sighed as he mentally went over this list. He hailed a cab, and was off and down the street in seconds. Once settled he pulled out his phone and sent a message to his brother, Mycroft.

_Baker St at once. Come in person. SH_

Sliding his phone closed and stuffing it in his pocket, he tried not to think of what was coming up ahead. He sat there, hands meeting in his thinking pose, eyes shut, trying to block out all the surfacing feelings. Though Sherlock had always prided himself on locking his feelings away, he had always had them, just below the surface, threatening to become real. Hiding his emotions for so long did not prepare him for what would happen next.

Hoping out of the cab on Baker St, he was greeted by his brother, who once receiving Sherlock's text, had rushed over and was now patiently waiting outside the door to 221B. Exchanging a look, the climbed the stairs in silence. Sherlock led Mycroft to his room instead of the sitting area, and this caused Mycroft's brow to raise slightly in curiosity. Sitting on his bed, he motioned for his brother to join him.

Mycroft had only a moment to sit when he felt a weight against him. Sherlock had taken to leaning into his brother, before he began to cry. Mycroft was intrigued, but nevertheless, he opted to settle his teary brother's head in his lap, where he proceeded to stroke his hair lovingly. You see, even though the Holmes brothers were known for being at each other's throats, they were still brothers. Brothers who, even though they would hate to admit, love the other dearly.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound Sherlock's crying sobs. Mycroft was the first to speak.

"Brother dearest, what has happened to upset you to the point of tears?" his voice was surprisingly full of worry.

"Its Emily." Sherlock replied, minutes later.

Mycroft looked displeased. Of course it was that Emily girl. Ever sense Sherlock decided to marry her, things had gone south. And all Mycroft could do was sit and watch. He sighed.

"If you two have had a fight…"

"She's dead. Murdered."

Mycroft was taken aback at this.

"It was one of Moriarty's, I know it."

At that, Mycroft removed his hand from Sherlock's head.

He sighed. "Sherlock, there is no chance that it was one of Moriarty's men, they have all been eliminated. And Moriarty never knew you had had a wife in the first place. Did you see the body?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "For a second."

"Then how could you possibly be sure that it was one of his? Did you even solve the murder?"

"No, I let Lisbeth handle it."

Mycroft all but shoved Sherlock off of him when he heard that. Sherlock looked at him, with wide reddened eyes and tear stained cheeks.

"You let your daughter solve her mother's murder? That is cold, even for us." He all but spat in his brother's face. "Why couldn't you handle it yourself?"

"I didn't want them… to see me cry." He mumbled in response.

Mycroft's expression softened at the detective's sudden confession. "Oh, Sherlock." He whispered, before pulling his brother back into an embrace. Sherlock silently sobbed into Mycroft's jacket.

"I sense a disturbance"

"In the force?" John laughed wholeheartedly. Lisbeth's glare had him shut his mouth in seconds.

"This isn't a joke John, something's not right…" John could see her eyeing her peripheral vision. "There. One of Mycroft's cars. Across the street, around the corner. He wants to be known, but not quickly."

John started to turn- "Stop, don't acknowledge it."

She huffed. "This is worse than I thought. He thinks it's Moriarty, and now he's evolved his brother. Hopefully Mycroft can open his eyes." She looked over at John. "Come along, John."

Lisbeth swiftly opened the door and hurried up the stairs. John tried hard to keep up. Shoving her key in the lock, opening the door, she burst into the room. Turning, she stopped.

"Dad."

John barely made in time to see. Sherlock, cradled in his brother's arms, weeping. It was something John had never seen before, something he never could have dreamed of. Mycroft looked up at them and gave a curt smile. Gently nudging his brother and letting go, Mycroft stood. Sherlock looked up at him and gave a small sniffle. Mycroft pet the detective's head for a moment before whisking away, out the bedroom door and over to Lisbeth.

"Beth." He smiled, lying on hand on her shoulder, squeezing it slightly. Mycroft looked her straight in the eye, as if looking for something deep within her. He glanced at John in the doorway and nodded, sullenly. With that, he took his leave.

John felt a sudden urge to reach out to the crying detective, but before he could even think to do anything, Sherlock was up and moving. All traces of tears and red eyes vanished in an instant. Lisbeth looked displeased, but said nothing. John, if he weren't in his right mind, would have consoled with him and possibly held him like Mycroft had. John felt a pang of jealousy thinking back. He wished that Sherlock had confided with him instead of his brother.

"Angela." Lisbeth spoke softly.

Sherlock's head shot up at the name. He turned around. "The maid?"

She nodded. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. "The maid, the maid, the maid…" he muttered to himself over and over. Pacing back and forth trying to piece it together. "Thief." He said in realization. But his expression grew dark. "A petty thief murdered my wife for her jewels?" He spat, angry; horrified to even think his wife would perish that way.

Lisbeth walked over slowly and took his hand. "Suicide. She committed suicide, the grief of murdering another human being got to her."

Sherlock sighed. Without turning, he acknowledged her suitcase.

"Take my room, down the hall, to the left."

She nodded once, eyes never leaving the detective. Their conversation was over, for now.


	4. Lisbeth's Introduction

In the minutes it took for Lisbeth to reenter the room, the two men sat in utter, painfully awkward, silence. John had taken to sitting on the sofa, whilst Sherlock retreated to his corner by the window, unconsciously staring out onto Baker Street, lost in his thoughts. John had taken this opportunity to stare openly at the back of the consulting detective.

Lisbeth turned the corner and entered the main room, pausing at the entranceway to admire the sight. A small smile crept onto her face. It didn't last long. Sherlock turned abruptly, causing John to jump from his position on the sofa. Lisbeth let her face drop into a scowl. She dreaded what happened next.

"I'm going out." The detective announced, his face and voice caring a monotone disposition. He swept across the floor, John's eyes never leaving him, and shrugged into his oversized coat by the door. Tying his scarf in its usual knot, he gave a small peck to his daughter's head before crossing the threshold and shutting the door to the flat behind him. They could hear his feet stomping down the steps, and finally, a bang of the downstairs front door.

John and Lisbeth had not said a word during Sherlock's exit, and stayed that way for a while, before Lisbeth sighed loudly, and made her way to the kitchen.

"Tea, John?" She called out to him, filling the kettle and flicking it on.

"That would be lovely, thanks." John replied, much to himself, as he was suddenly lost in thought. This Lisbeth girl seemed to know an awful lot about him. And now that he thought about it, had he even introduced himself to her? Maybe it was her Holmes skill of deduction. Maybe Sherlock was just chatty when it came to him. Yes, John quite liked the idea of Sherlock wanting to tell his daughter all about him. Maybe she knew about the blog, maybe she read it.

A teacup settling itself into his hands interrupted John's thoughts. He smiled and nodded in her direction, taking a sip. She knew how he liked his tea as well?

"Yes, Father informed me of you. He spent most of our visits talking about your great adventures together, and occasionally spends the hours talking about the deductions he's made. Ever one to brag he is."

She seemed to be able to read John's mind, just like Sherlock. But something tugged in John's mind, _brag? _Sherlock bragged about John? Or did he brag about his brilliant deductions? The latter seemed more realistic, though John would give anything for the former to be true.

"And the way I take my tea came up?" John asked, as nonchalant as possible.

She gave a smirk, "Well, no, I figured seeing as Father only takes his tea with sugar, everything else must be for you." She hummed. "He does have a sweet tooth."

Lisbeth gazed into her teacup, eyes glazed, lost in her mind kingdom. John however, wanted to reach a point of understanding. His voice broke her thoughts.

"Did-did you see him?"

She slowly raised her brow.

"After the fall I mean. Did you see him while he was dead?" John looked slightly shaken, as if he didn't want an answer at all. Maybe it was closure, closure that he wasn't the only one left behind.

Lisbeth offered a sad smile. "Alas, no. If you weren't Mycroft, father wanted nothing to do with you at the time. He was hell-bent on dismantling Moriarty's web of subordinates. If I am correct, he spoke to me only after speaking to you." She smirked. "I remember him coming home that night, distraught, telling me of how you betrayed him and got engaged to that Mary girl. How you would run off married, have a family, and forget all about your best friend. I dare say he was much too excited the day she broke it off."

John was puzzled, why was she telling him these things; these private, inter-most Sherlock thoughts? However pressing this question was, he set them aside and decided to pose another.

"You said your mother's and Sherlock's relationship was in tatters. So why did he get so emotional about her death?" That came out harsher than John anticipated.

However, Lisbeth didn't skip a beat. "My mother, Emily, was probably, no, certainly the first person Father had ever thought of as a friend. Though their friendship did not even parallel to your friendship now, it was the closest he had ever gotten to anyone. He once told me that at the time he had no idea what love is. He said he might have even confused the feeling with the need for companionship. By the time Emily was pregnant, he knew what he felt was not love. He stayed with her, yes, for my sake, but in the end I believe he had began to feel how he felt when they were friends. Emily, on the other hand, was completely head-over-heels.

"When Father began his work with Lestrade, and later his dabbles with cocaine, Emily was distraught. She feared for his safety and, in turn, the safety of our family. He came home rarely. And when he arrived, it was endless agreement until he left. He began living on his own shortly after. But to answer your question, she was Father's first friend, his first 'love', so to speak, and the women who gave him a child."

Lisbeth set her empty mug down. "John."

John raised his eyes from his lap to look at her. "Yes?"

"Father will return in 3 minutes and 42 seconds. Is that all?"

John took the opportunity to weight his options. What should he ask? His mind was so full of questions, hardly anything seemed important. Before he knew it, he was blurting out the last thing he'd ever thought he'd ask:

"How do I make Sherlock Holmes fall in love with me?"

Lisbeth smiled.

The door opened.


	5. Sherlock's Thoughts

Sherlock didn't think twice about leaving the flat. Hastily throwing on his outerwear and slamming the downstairs front door behind him, he made his way down Baker Street and around the corner to hail a cab. He wasn't particularly going anywhere, the drive, however, would hopefully clear his mind.

What was clouding Sherlock's mind was not necessarily the death of his ex-wife. (Though the papers were never filed, Sherlock had long ago begun to consider Emily his ex.) It was however the thought of one John Watson that filled his head.

First of all, how was John handling this sudden news? Was he feeling betrayed? Lied to? And what of his daughter, unknown for six years, suddenly having to move in with them? And, most importantly, what of these _emotions_ stirring inside him? The pang in his heart when seeing the hurt look on John's face at the sight of Sherlock weeping in his brother's arms? That in it was embarrassing enough, John being able to view him as weak and vulnerable.

Sherlock had long since accepted his _feelings _for John. The day they met he had noticed an attraction to the other man, but soon after discarded the thought as unnecessary. It wasn't until his 'death' that he really began to notice how he had felt all those years. Seeing John with Mary was heartbreaking, bringing Sherlock to tears during confrontation with his daughter. Then, returning after three long years away from his blogger, being welcomed back with open arms (and a punch in the face, mind you).

With Emily, Sherlock believed he had found love. He had admitted to himself, and Lisbeth, that at the time, he did not know what love was. By the time things had gotten serious, he was sure the feeling wasn't there. He could see in Emily the feeling of love she felt towards him, yet he could not begin to comprehend it.

With John, things were different. For one, everything came easily. Telling John the truth, sharing his thoughts, _eating_. Eating, John had always forced him to eat, even on cases when Sherlock fled at the sight of food. And sleeping, John always cared enough to force him to sleep, if even for a few hours.

He had not lied to Lisbeth when he called John his saving grace. The lack of sleep and malnutrition would kill him some day, but the threat of cocaine overdose was what was really eating away at his existence. Sherlock tried hard not to think too much on it.

"Hey, buddy, you gettin' in the cab or what?"

Sherlock broke out of his thoughts. He had not noticed the cab the pulled in front of him. Judging by the look on the cabbie's face, he had been waiting for sometime. Sherlock didn't acknowledge the man, and instead began to head back in the direction he had come.

Ticked, the cabbie sped off down the road. Keeping his head down, Sherlock made his way back to 221B.

Driving the key into the lock, Sherlock carefully opened the front door. Clambering up the steps he reached the door to the flat just in time to hear:

"How do I make Sherlock Holmes fall in love with me?"

Sherlock stopped. Hand awkwardly stretched towards the doorknob, mid-step, jaw open with an unspoken 'I'm home!' He could make 23 deductions right there, on the spot, and yet, the only thing he could think of was:

_Need more data._

Hand met doorknob, and Sherlock stepped into the main room. Lisbeth sat comfortably in his armchair, stretched with an empty teacup by her side. John on the other hand, looked like a fish out of water. He refused to acknowledge Sherlock, though the blush rising to his cheeks said that he knew Sherlock was there.

_Data._

_John is blushing. John is asking Lisbeth questions about me. John is interested in having me fall in love with him._

Beep.

It was Sherlock's mobile that broke the silence. It sat on the coffee table near Lisbeth, so she opted to read the message. Opening the text, she sighed.

"It's Lestrade."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, "Case?"

She shook her head. "He's sending his condolences. Mycroft's asked him to hold cases for at least a week until you are, as he puts it, 'emotionally stable'. Load of bullshit if you ask me."

Sherlock shook his head as well. He sighed. "Fine. Tell him one week, no more, no less."

Lisbeth nodded shortly before turning her attention to the mobile. Clicking the tiny buttons at an incredible pace. Not long after she looked back up at her father.

"Have you unpacked?" He asked shortly, not too interested in a response.

She laughed, "You know I didn't bring anything, other than my laptop, and necessities. Hell, I didn't even pack clothes, everything stunk too much like that awful mansion."

Sherlock looked indifferent. Pulling out his wallet, he reached for two cards. Sliding them out he handed them to her. "Red one's credit, Blue one's atm. It'll be billed straight to Mycroft's account. By now, he's probably transferred your savings back to his, now that Emily is gone. Just don't max me out, John needs that card for Tesco's."

At that, the two seemed to remember John's presence in the room.

"Actually," He said, "John, why don't you go with her. Carry her bags or something. I have work to attend to." With that, Sherlock vanished into his room without an answer.

John turned back to Lisbeth. She smirked.

"Right then," he started, "Where to now?"


	6. Lisbeth's Suggestion

_Shopping with your best friend's daughter, surprisingly fun._

John laughed inwardly at the thought. He and Lisbeth had spent the last few hours gallivanting from on shop to another. Did you know Lisbeth Holmes likes jumpers? Sure as hell surprised John.

Now, however, they were settled in a small café 'round the shops, having a light snack. John was comfortable taking sips of his coffee, while Lisbeth drank a latte and nibbled on a blueberry muffin.

"So John, about what you asked me earlier," she began, wiping crumbs from the corners of her mouth, "the answer is: no need."

John, who had become uncomfortable at the mention of his embarrassing outburst beforehand, was now thoroughly confused at her statement.

"What do you mean, 'no need'?" he asked, "Do you want me to stay away from your father, is that it?" His tone was not angry, or demanding, but soft and hurt.

Lisbeth looked down into her cup. "John," she began, eyes rising up to meet his. "I did not lie to you when I called you my father's saving grace. You are the best thing to ever happen to him, and I would never, ever, want anything to happen to pull you two apart. I know me showing up out of the blue is inconvenient at best, but I would never off and send you on your way. He needs you, and by extent, I need you."

"What did you mean then? 'No need'?"

She smiled. "I mean, Sherlock Holmes is already in love with you."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH 

Sherlock slipped quietly in his thinking pose the moment the two departed. He sat in his crowded bedroom pondering how he should approach his situation. All his data pointed to John having romantic feelings for him. But how should he proceed? John and Lisbeth would be home soon, so Sherlock needed to act fast.

He pulled out his mobile.

**How should I show interest in John? SH**

Sherlock sat back and waited patiently for his phone to go off.

Beep!

**Remember that cooking class you took with Emily? LH**

Sherlock took a moment to remember.

**You want me to make dinner? SH**

**Wasn't a hard deduction was it? John loves sentiment, remember? LH**

**What do I make? SH**

**What does he eat? LH**

**Takeout. SH**

**Try something easy, spaghetti, for example. LH**

Sherlock scoffed; of course he could make spaghetti. He was just about to start looking for ingredients when another text came in.

**I can give you 20 minutes. Make yourself and the room presentable, no experiments, no books or papers, and wipe down the kitchen table will you? LH**

**I would need more time. SH**

**I convinced him to go into one more shop. You've an hour. LH**

**Thank you, darling. SH**

Sherlock made great haste, swinging into action. He quickly ran through every cupboard and drawer looking for ingredients and cookware. Finally, he spotted a box of noodles. Cleaning a dry experiment out of one of the pots, he filled it with water and set it to boil.

Sherlock went into the fridge to search for something to make sauce out of. Thankfully, John had gone shopping a few days prior and had made another attempt at buying fresh vegetables. He pulled out all the ones he would need for his sauce. A bit of chopping, mashing, and stirring later, Sherlock had a perfectly nice sauce made.

Setting the noodles in the now boiling water, Sherlock decided it was a good time to start cleaning up. Setting a timer, he whisked into the sitting room to begin straightening up.

Turning to view the rest of the kitchen, mainly the table, he groaned aloud. It was a mess, experiments, papers, and books covered it completely. This would take awhile.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHHS HSH

"Johnnn!" Lisbeth whined, "Can't we just look at one last thing?"

John ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his face. Lisbeth, who was perfectly content going back to the flat an hour ago, was now trying as hard as possible to prolong their shopping adventure. He sighed.

"No Lisbeth," John said, shaking his head, "We need to get home. Besides, I'm worried about your father and how he's taking everything."

She frowned. There was no way around it. Hopefully Sherlock managed to get everything done in the time it took them to walk circles around the shop they were currently in.

Lisbeth too sighed. "I suppose you're right. We should go catch a cab."

John nodded and quickly turned to the street to hail a cab. Lisbeth swiftly pulled out her mobile and typed out a short message.

**Better be ready. I'd say five minutes, tops. LH**

Not waiting for a response, she shoved her phone back into her pocket and ran after John. Climbing into the cab with her bags, they headed down the road to Baker Street.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSH

John was the first one out of the car. Lisbeth tried her best to quickly follow, but her bags were weighting her down slightly. John chuckled.

"Let me give you a hand."

After some minor readjustments, they approached the door to their flat. The closer they got however, it seemed a noise was coming from the second story window.

_Violin, this better be good, Dad. _Lisbeth thought, nearly breaking into a sweat when John unlocked the front door. John, on the other hand, seemed indifferent. Coming home to Sherlock playing violin was nothing new to him. But halfway up the stairs John noticed something unusual.

"Do you smell that?" he asked, thoroughly confused. "Smells a bit like tomatoes and spice."

Lisbeth shrugged. "Probably just an experiment." She lied smoothly.

John shrugged as well. Turning back and heading up the stairs once again.

14, 15, 16, 17 steps and they were there, opening the door and entering the flat. Lisbeth closed her eyes; John's grew wider.

"What the…?" John nearly dropped everything he was carrying. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

Sherlock lingered on his last note before gently setting down his violin and bow. He spun around to reveal a breath-taking sight. His hair was perfect as always, curls haphazardly framing his face. He was dressed eloquently in a deep sapphire dress shirt and pitch black skinny jeans. _Skinny jeans_. The Sherlock Holmes was not only wearing jeans, but skinny jeans. John almost melted on the spot. The flat, after taking a second look to make sure, was spotless. Books were on shelves, papers straightened on their desks. Not an experiment in sight. John's eyes met Sherlock's again, and the latter smiled brightly; _his just-for-John smile. _

Lisbeth brushed past him and took her bags from his hands. John had forgotten she was standing behind him. She sweep through the room on her way to Sherlock's bedroom, passing her father, he swooped down and gave her a kiss on the head. They both watched her disappear around the corner before either spoke again.

"Sherlock, what-"

"I made dinner."

That threw John completely. "D-dinner?"

Sherlock just offered another smile and a wave of his hand as a reply. John turned to where he was gesturing. The kitchen was cleaner than he had even seen before, and he's seen Mrs. Hudson clean. The dishes that were in the sink had been cleaned and put away and the table, _the table_, was set for three in a very eloquent manner. John's jaw dropped for a second time.

Sherlock stepped around him to pull out chair, motioning for John to sit. This was going to be interesting.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSH

Sitting on his bed, John went over the night's affairs in his head, one more time.

Dinner was interesting indeed. Lisbeth had joined them of course, the three of them engaging in intelligent conversations, bouts of laughter, and witty banter. Sherlock was the perfect dapper host, something John would have never imagined. The food was delicious, despite being just spaghetti, much better and homier than takeout.

John scratched the back of his head. What was that all about anyway? Surely Sherlock was up to something. Lisbeth was definitely in on it too, seeing how in-sync those two are. But what; what could Sherlock possibly accomplish doing this? Lisbeth's words appeared in his head, but he shook off the thought before it could register. Sighing, John fell back into his mattress, and let sleep take him.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSH

Finally finishing washing dishes and cleaning up after their little dinner, Sherlock retired to his bedroom. Clicking the door softly behind him, he faced Lisbeth sitting up on their bed, flipping through one of Sherlock's many books.

"Bees? Never knew you had a fascination with bees." She said softly.

Sherlock disregarded her comment, steering the conversation in a different direction. "How do you think tonight was? Did it work?"

She stared blankly up at him. "How should I know?"

"You understand sentiment much better than I do!"

"Look father, nothing happens over night, quite literally. This will take time." She stopped, considering, before continuing. "But, if you are truly desperate, I do have an idea…"


	7. Sherlock's Talent

That night John slept soundly. He spent the night peacefully, dreams dancing wonderfully through his subconscious. That was until he was rudely interrupted. But John couldn't have been more content with the result of his interruption. It started with a nightmare, and no, it wasn't John's.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

John shot up in his bed. A scream had shaken the flat rather thoroughly. Startled, he was panting, staring at the door, and blindly searching through his bedsit table drawer for his gun. Hand clasping around his weapon of choice, John slid out of bed. Carefully stepping out of the room, he tiptoed down the staircase slowly, avoiding the creaking steps.

Now stepping down to the main floor, John could hear faint whimpering, along with something even more surprising. Singing. He continued down the hall to the living room, feet shuffling lightly against the wood floor. The noise became more apparent the closer he got to Sherlock's room. He set down his Browning on the coffee table, and dared to get closer.

"_I think about you every single day  
_

_And every time I see your face_

_I wake and it brings me to tears  
_

_We hadn't spoken in years  
_

_We were close when we were young and naive  
_

_We grew up and we learned other things  
_

_You'll always be sweet 16"_

John could hear the low baritone voice wafting through the flat. It almost stopped him from continuing, but he needed to see with his own eyes.

"_And you will always be perfect  
_

_You'll always be beautiful  
_

_Our hearts will never forget you  
_

_You didn't belong here  
_

_And it's become so clear  
_

_Why heaven called your name"_

It was Sherlock, definitely Sherlock. But John needed to know why. It was obvious from the start the scream came from Lisbeth, but John needed to know _why_.

"_I miss you and it still feels like I know you  
_

_I've got pictures of us side by side to show you  
_

_But it feels like I owe you so much more"_

John reached the door to Sherlock's room. It was cracked open, though John faintly remembered it being closed when he went to bed. He leaned forward and looked in, and saw a sight he didn't think he's ever see.

Lisbeth was curled into a ball, shaking slightly. Sherlock held her in his lap, arms wrapped around her tightly. He was rocking back and forth occasionally, singing to her as she slowly fell asleep.

Nightmare, then, most likely of her mother's gruesome death. It reminded John of the nightmares he would have about Sherlock. About the fall, the blood on the concrete, the slow _agonizingly painful_ feeling he got watching the life leave his eyes. John almost burst into tears right there, until he realized, the singing stopped. John opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them, only to jump back at the sight of Sherlock so close to him.

He had been found out.

He cursed himself inwardly for not being more careful. He tried to quickly come up with an excuse for why Sherlock's, nothing daring to come out. John recognized that gaze. Sherlock's eyebrows were slightly furrowed and he was squinting a bit. The deep pools of icy blue turned calculating, flitting side to side to take everything in.

He was gauging John's reaction. Ever since his daughter had come into the picture, he was becoming more and more emotional around John. He even cried in front of him, for God's sake. Now, he had caught him in his fatherly mode, singing his daughter to sleep. Though, in retrospect, this turn of events was not all bad. Maybe crying and dinners and singing would show John that Sherlock was worth loving, could love in return. But for now, things will just have to stay awkward.

Sherlock stepped completely out of his room and closed the door. John caught a glance of Lisbeth sleeping soundly on the mattress. He smiled softly at the sight.

"She woke you." It wasn't a question, more like a confirmation in John's eyes.

John smiled weakly. "It's fine, I'm used to it." Sherlock took a moment to look for any hint of sarcasm in his voice. He found none.

"Crime scenes never used to effect her before."

John thought he could laugh at the outright stupidity of Sherlock's comment. "Sherlock, that was her mother. Of course it affected her. Didn't it affect you?"

Fuck. John should have held his tongue. That was not something you ask someone who has just lost his or her wife. Sherlock, on the other hand, was relieved that John brought it up.

"Yes and no," He began, peaking John's interest. "It affected me on the basis that, yes, that woman was the mother to my child, and yet, I feel unaffected entirely. I figured out, not too long ago, that I never really loved her in the first place. Emily was a dear friend, and shall be missed greatly, but her death will not keep me from going on with my life. The song was just one that Lisbeth would appreciate. She knows where I stand with her mother."

John didn't look up from the spot on the floor. What Sherlock had said, what Lisbeth was continually saying, gave John hope into a relationship with the detective. Sherlock's actions over the previous day showed him that the man did have the ability to love. _Had it really only been a day? _It seemed like eons.

Thinking back to what Lisbeth had said earlier, _'Sherlock Holmes is already in love with you'_ John's heart swelled with hope. If only he could trust her words.

"John?"

His gaze lifted until dull brown bet stunning blue. Sherlock looked concerned, if that was possible. He gave his blogger a smile. Closing the distance between them, he reached out and cupped John's face in his hand.

John looked stunned; a blush crept onto his cheeks and Sherlock could feel the heat radiating into his hand. Leaning forward further, their foreheads met softly. Sherlock marveled in the sight of John so close. He cataloged everything into his mind palace, in the wing entitled 'John'.

John's breath hitched. Sherlock was so close to him touching their foreheads, it was all too overwhelming. He swallowed, hard. His eyes were even more gorgeous up close. What was this? Was Sherlock going to kiss him? He closed his eyes to hide his anticipation.

Sherlock watched John close his eyes in curiosity. Did John want him to kiss him? That was a lovely thought. But Sherlock was not about to ruin his plans.

Lifting his head slightly, Sherlock placed a soft kiss to John's temple. He let it linger, feeling John's eye's open in surprise, feeling him settle and calm, content with the situation. Parting, Sherlock gave him a just-for-John smile.

"Get some sleep." He whispered, before straightening and retreating back to his room.

John felt light-headed. Cloud nine even. He floated up the stairs and into his bedroom, to crawl into bed and fall asleep.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SH

The door clicked softly behind Sherlock. He turned to see Lisbeth sitting upright on the bed playing on his mobile. She looked up at him.

"How'd it go?"

"Perfect."


	8. Lisbeth's Works

The next morning John woke precisely at 6am. It was a military habit he had yet to forget. Rubbing his eyes and sitting up, he felt oddly peaceful and content. Then he remembered the events of the night before.

John groaned. There was no way to tell if that had all been a dream or not. Sherlock kissing him- even if it was just his forehead- was unfathomable. And his singing, god, it was breathtaking. He'd give anything to hear it again.

Buzz, Buzz!

John looked over to his nightstand where his phone lay. He unlocked it, answering in a somewhat cheerful tone.

"Sarah."

"_John, oh thank god, you have to come in today! It's flu season and half the on call is out sick. Please John."_

John lifted a hand and rubbed his face one more time. Sighing, he agreed.

"Alright Sarah, I'll be there in an hour."

He hung up his phone, but stopped for a moment to check the date.

November 2nd 2016.

Had that all just happened in one day? Waking up at half noon, discovering Sherlock's deceased wife, adding a +1 to their home, a spectacular dinner, a song, and a kiss? He closed his eyes and listened. Faintly he heard Sherlock below him wandering about and bickering with his daughter. His _daughter_, the one John had no idea about until she popped into their lives. He pushed the thought aside. He would let that one go, he decided.

John swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his dog tags clinking in protest to his movement. He held out a hand to stop them. _Now_, he thought, _what to wear today? _

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSH

John grumbled as he shoved the key into its lock, arriving home after a very long day at surgery. He was home later than usual, making a rash decision to visit the graveyard after shift.

He had walked sullenly through the headstones, a smirk rising suddenly as he passed by Sherlock's old tomb, stopping to take a few roses from his banquet and dropping them in front of the black granite. Giving the stone a loving pat, he continued down the whining path to the grave he had come to visit that day.

He stood before it, looking quite lost, if you had passed by just then and saw him. John let out a shaky breath and crouched down to wipe the muck off the stone before him. The words became clear, and John could feel tears forming in his eyes.

_**Harriet J. Watson**_

_**1975-2014**_

She had died of alcohol poisoning and left John to face the world alone, orphaned, just two years after Sherlock jumped. John tried not to think to hard on that fact. He stood up abruptly, dropping the flowers into place, deciding he'd talk to her later.

Now, heading up the seventeen steps to his flat, he could feel the doom radiating from the top of the stairs. Mycroft must be in then.

John opened the door and immediately head for the kitchen. Someone had to be nice enough to make tea. The kettle began to boil and he put three-no, four- cups on a serving platter. Examining the fridge, he was lucky enough to find milk. It was just then when he began to hear the conversation that was taking place in the living room.

"…And I don't very much appreciate you telling my 'keeper' that he's not to send any more cases my way for a week!"

"It's for the best dear brother. Besides, now you can spend some quality time with your daughter. Beth, honey, how is neuroscience treating you these days?"

John missed her answer over the sound of the shrieking kettle. He made his way into the sitting room carrying the tray of teas. He noted his surroundings. Mycroft was perched in John's chair, as per usual, with Sherlock across from him and Lisbeth on the couch. All three Holmes were looking exceedingly uncomfortable. Setting the cups on the coffee table he retreated to the couch where Lisbeth sat, bringing their tea with him. She nodded as thanks. They turned their attention back to the argument before them. John noted that Sherlock had taking to answering everything back in French.

"Le temps que je passe avec ma fille ne se préoccupe pas de la vôtre."

Mycroft made a 'tut' noise. "Everything about you is a concern of mine."

Sherlock sighed and pressed himself further into the chair. "Appelez-Lestrade, j'ai besoin d'un cas à l'instant."

"I will not call Gregory, and you will not get a case. One week Sherlock, you will survive."

"Vous plaisantez Myc, le père sera à tirer sur les murs avant la semaine est à travers. Oncle Greg n'aura pas de problème levée de l'interdiction. Vous avez eu à faire de lui convenir n'avez-vous pas? Il n'aurait jamais volontairement renoncé à son consultant. " Lisbeth supplied, but before continuing she paused a moment to consider. "On second thought, I suppose it wouldn't be a complete waste, a week off from cases, without the constant on-edge waiting for a new one to arrive. Suppose it did some good. Maybe John can get in a full week at surgery, make all that useless money." She smirked.

John decided not to comment on these events.

Mycroft smiled his diplomatic smile, and turned to Sherlock. "It's settled then, I will make sure Gregory holds a few cases for you for when you get back to him next week. Beth, it's so good to see you adjusting. If you need anything, you know who to call." He gave a nod in John's direction and took his leave.

As the door shut, Sherlock form visibly softened. Lisbeth gave a small smile in his direction. John decided to speak up.

"So, neuroscience was it?" His tone was mock serious, and soon the three were caught in a fit of giggles. They fell into a comfortable silence.

Lisbeth's phone went off, breaking that silence.

John almost started laughing again. "Is that 'Roslin and Adama' from Battlestar Galactica?"

She made a face, "Oh like you're one to talk. How you even heard your ring tone for Father?"

John paled as she answered her phone. Sherlock shot him a look.

"Daniel, this better be good, you know today's my day off… Yes, well… No, I suppose… Fine, but only Dr. Smith's lectures, I'm not covering for Brown's. Deal. See you in 15."

Lisbeth hung up her phone looking ticked. She sighed and stood quickly. Rushing over to the door she shrugged into her coat and knotted her scarf around her neck. She made her way back over to Sherlock.

"Night lectures again Lisbeth? I thought you told them to 'sod it'." He commented with a frown.

"Yes father, I know, but I owe Daniel a favour or two. I'll be home by, well, tomorrow."

She swooped in and gave him a peck on the cheek. Nodding in John's direction, she gracefully made her way out the door. After the click of the front door, an uncomfortable silence filled the flat. John wasn't sure what to do. Sherlock usually deduced him the moment he walked in the door, and he still might have, but didn't voice his findings because of Mycroft's presence. He could tell by they way the detective's eyes racked over him now that he was itching to comment. John decided to steer him in a new direction.

"Night lectures? What exactly does Lisbeth do?"

"She's a professor of neuroscience at a local university. She gives lectures about her findings and educates the occasional class of students. She's written a number of books actually." He replied, his eyes twinkling with pride. "Of course, she couldn't use her real name, her name throughout her entire life has been Amelia Ravensdale. Although, now I suppose she may go by her given name, seeing as some rather unsavoury members of the Yard have ousted her existence."

John blinked, hard. "Amelia Ravensdale? I quoted her work 'Down the Rabbit Hole; A Look into the Wanderer's Mind' as my thesis for my essay in my PhD renewal course! That was your daughter? She couldn't have been older than twelve at that time!"

Sherlock snickered. "Yes, well, she is a prodigy." He stood. "Takeaway sound good? I'll order."

**Sorry about the late update. I was feeling unappreciated and unmotivated. I don't know if I even like this. But it's here now so you 14 followers out there please enjoy. Review maybe? Even if it's just to tell me I suck, I feel like no one cares. Like I'm writing to no one. Sorry for bitching, have a nice day.**


	9. Sherlock's Weakness

Dinner that night had been a nice quiet affair, Lisbeth keeping her promise and coming home the next day looking swamped with clothes that had clearly been slept in. By that morning the papers had caught on to her existence and were swarming with headlines such as, "The Detective's Daughter" and other gems. The following case-less week had gone smoothly; John taking shifts at the surgery, Lisbeth presenting lectures to her students, and Sherlock firing shots at the wall.

Bang!

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John yelled up the steps as he was entering the flat.

"Bored." The detective replied evenly, firing two more shots at his signature smiley face.

John sighed. Sherlock was in another one of his moods, a week without cases was bad enough usually, but now full well knowing there would be no life-saving call, well, it was miserable. John had thankfully been able to take shifts at the surgery, much to the detective's dismay. With John gone in the daytime and Lisbeth gone at night, they had developed a pretty good schedule of keeping an eye on Sherlock. Today was different however, Lisbeth was needed elsewhere this morning, and Sherlock was left alone.

Resulting in shots to the yellow smiley face.

John checked his watch. It was still another four hours before the ban was lifted, and he knew for a fact Lestrade would call at six, right on the dot. Until then, John had to come up with some way to entertain Sherlock that didn't involve his browning.

Reluctantly, John asked, "How about Cluedo?"

The detective's face lit up like Christmas.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSH

Not thirty minutes later did Lisbeth come home to find her father and his flatmate wrestling on the floor, a mess of Cluedo pieces and cards surrounding them. She stood above their tangled form, watching, before retreating to the kitchen.

A minute later she returned, with a fire extinguisher.

"LISBETH!"

"WHAT THE-"

She smiled, tossing the now empty canister to the side. "Hullo."

They were both ridiculously covered in white foam and John couldn't help but blush at his current position, practically straddling Sherlock while pinning his arms down to his sides. Sherlock's leg, however, was bent against his chest, his foot angled in a way that it was pushed flat against John's stomach, as if ready to kick him off. Both were flushed and panting slightly, attempting to catch their breath.

Realizing where he was, John jumped up off Sherlock, awkwardly coughing. The latter stood slowly, stretching, before shaking himself off. John followed suit.

Lisbeth was smiling, rocking back and forth from her heels to the balls of her feet. Her father glanced at her before muttering,

"What are you so happy about?"

John was surprised that Sherlock simply asked instead of deducing. Or maybe he was trying to be considerate. Both options were unsettling. Lisbeth smiled wider.

"My publisher has offered me to write a tell-all book about my life as the world's greatest detective's daughter."

Sherlock raised a brow. "And?"

"And I told him to sod off and fired his ass."

Sherlock chuckled. John looked perplexed. "And this makes you happy?" he asked.

"Well, no, but that happened this morning. This afternoon, however, I received a call from the biggest publisher in London to write a series of detective novels. But that's not the best part."

"What's the best part?"

"Well, I said there was no way I could possibly write a series of detective novels without any first-hand experience, so the publisher said I could bring in a co-writer. And guess whose name I told them to write the check to?"

John couldn't believe his ears. "You're not saying…"

Lisbeth's grin split her face in two. "That right, John! I'm getting them to publish your blog!"

His jaw dropped.

"Well, with a few minor adjustments. And well I will be doing most of the actual writing. And we'll have to rename and revamp the cases. But essentially, essentially, it wills me, "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes", in the perspective of Capn. John H. Watson, MD. Your memoirs John, it will be fantastic!"

John was sputtering, words refusing to form, his eyes wide, and he was practically shaking with excitement. But before he could say anything, Sherlock butted in.

"Right that's all well and good but did you get what I asked for?"

Lisbeth rolled her eyes. "Right forgot that you wouldn't care. Yeah, the bag's on the kitchen counter. Go crazy."

He nodded in her direction and took off. She turned he attention back to John, who at this point seemed to be hyperventilating. Shaking her head she fell to her knees in front of him and took hold of his hands.

"Ok, breath John, in out, in out."

He sputtered once more before following her instructions. Once his breathing calmed, he finally spoke.

"I can't accept this, Lisbeth, it's too much, it's quite possibly the best gift I've ever received." He swallowed, "And I can't accept it,"

She began to pout. Puppy dog eyes were apparently a family trait. "John, this is big for me too. This will be my first release under my real name! It needs to be perfect."

"I just don't know."

Lisbeth sighed. "Well think about it ok? Right now we should help Father."

John raised a brow. "Why?"

There came a crash from the kitchen, followed by a muffled groan.

"Sherlock!"

He rushed over to the kitchen, only to find Sherlock laying on the floor moaning in pain, clutching his stomach. There was a small chuckle coming from behind him, and he whipped around to face Lisbeth.

"What did you give him?" John said accusingly, jumping down to check Sherlock's vitals.

She laughed harder. "He's perfectly fine, if not a small tummy-ache."

John raised his brows, eyes never leaving the form of his best friend. "Tummy-ache? What are you talking about?"

She handed him the brown paper bag of the counter. He took it, suspicious, and opened it. Inside were multiple bags of American sweets and pastries. Half of them were nearly gone. John looked back at Sherlock, now asleep, with wonder in his eyes.

"American sweets? Pastries? Where did you get this? More importantly, why did you get this?" He asked, trying hard not to laugh at the absurdity of this situation.

She shrugged. "He has a sweet tooth. Positive I've mentioned it before. Once, when he and uncle Myc were little, Nan took them to America for holiday. Father wouldn't eat any of the 'vulgar' food they served there, until one day he walked past a sweet shop. Practically fell in love, he did. Ate nothing else the whole time there. But, after they got back, he could never have the sweets again, because they only sold them in America. Now, once a year, when Nan goes back to America, she sends a parcel filled with sweets. However, she never sent them directly to father, knowing what he was like. Mycroft used to have the job of watching over it, but you can imagine how that didn't work out. Now it's my job."

John took a moment to process before answering back. "So you gave it to him all at once?"

She chuckled again. "Before, the parcel would mean that father would have to visit me more often, and thus get more sweets. But now that I live here, it would be impossible to hide them, so I decided to let him learn from his own mistakes."

Another groan came from the lifeless form of Sherlock. "No Mummy, I'll be a good boy, please don't take my candy-floss."

John and Lisbeth exchanged a look before bursting out laughing. When it finally died down, John spoke again.

"So, when will he be back to normal?"

Lisbeth shrugged again. "He should recover in an hour, then pig out again, and well maybe a few days? Just be thankful you don't have to watch him fight uncle Myc for them. That was just sad."

John smiled at the thought of the two Holmes fighting over a bag of Twinkies.

The door downstairs clicked open.

"Mycroft?" John asked Lisbeth.

"No, I believe that would be your landlady."


	10. Lisbeth's Love Song

_**To the seventeen people who are still following me, you are too kind.**_

"John, dear?" Mrs. Hudson knocked daintily on the door. Pushing it open a bit she popped her head in, looking about until her eyes landed on John and Lisbeth.

She smiled, looked over Lisbeth, "Another client? Should I make some tea?"

"Well, actually Mrs. Hudson…"

"Hullo!" Lisbeth stepped forward and presented her hand. "Lisbeth Amelia Holmes, Sherlock's daughter."

At that the landlady paused, processing information, before smiling sweetly and accepting the offered hand.

"Lovely to meet you dear, I didn't think he had it in him." She turned to John, "I really ought to get going, bridge tonight, and you know how it is. Ta!"

After Mrs. Hudson had closed the door Lisbeth turned to John.

"Help me carry him to bed, will ya?" She asked nodding her head in her father's direction.

They approached him caution, attempting to keep him sleeping. Despite their efforts he stirred mumbling under his breath as together they hoisted Sherlock up and began carrying him to his room.

"Can you tell what he's saying?" John whispered harshly, slightly out of breath; Sherlock weighted more that he looked.

Lisbeth just sighed sadly in response. She kicked open the door and led John in after her.

"One, two…"

"Three."

Sherlock landed with a comical 'thump' and a small cloud of dust. John looked over at Lisbeth quizzically, but she just waved off his question.

"Watch him for a minute, yeah? I'll be right back." She asked him, before running off out of the room.

John turned to look at Sherlock's sleeping form. He was peaceful looking, all of a day's stress washed from his features. John could just… just kiss him right there. Yeah, just go over and-

Stop.

He caught himself at that last moment, hurriedly retreating a few steps from Sherlock. Lisbeth came back into the room moments later.

"Well?" John asked.

"Well nothing. Just leave him to sleep it off for awhile." She spent a moment staring intently at her father before turning back to John. "Come with me. We need to talk."

With that Lisbeth swept out of the room leaving John in her wake. He sighed, and with a fleeting glance at Sherlock, followed her out into the living room. She perched herself on the sofa, hands clasped beneath her chin in her own kind of thinking pose.

"What do we need to talk about?"

"Sherlock. You plan on courting father, yes?" She questioned softly.

John was bewildered by her sudden comment. "Well… yes, I suppose so."

Lisbeth broke into a wide grin. "Then I have the perfect plan." Jumping up she dug into her jeans pocket, pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper. She offered it to John, still holding that same grin.

He took it, an unsure look on his face. Unfolding it, his expression changed to one of confusion.

"A talent show, at the Yard?"

"Well, I couldn't help but notice your odd habit of drumming your fingers. I'm surprised Father hasn't made the connection."

John flushed a deep red.

"And, I also couldn't help but hear you singing in the shower the other day when you thought no one was home…"

John ran a hand through his hair in embarrassment.

"It will be great, you just wait and see. For now, however, we have places to be."

"Places to be?"

She just smiled.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH SHSH

A week had past since the candy-gorging incident. It was the night of the Yard talent show and Lisbeth made sure John's name was on the sign-up sheet.

The new challenge was to get Sherlock to attend.

"Father."

Sherlock looked up from his current experiment to address his daughter.

"Yes, Lisbeth?"

"Well, there is a talent show at the Yard tonight, and I was wondering if you would take me."

Sherlock frowned.

"You are capable of attending yourself. And why would I want to go see a bunch of moron's so-called talents?"

Without missing a beat, she replied, "Anderson is performing."

He sighed. "What time does it start?"

Lisbeth smiled.

(At the show.)

"You lied, you said Anderson was going to be making a fool of himself." Sherlock huffed and pouted.

"Technically, I just lied about him performing."

The talent show was nothing close to spectacular, but it was entertaining enough. Most of the performers were officers that Sherlock didn't associate with. Lestrade, however, did perform a song on his acoustic guitar. It was sub-par.

"Why are we even here? I'm leaving."

Lisbeth frowned. "There's only one act left, and I heard it's the best. Please just stay?"

A Holmes puppy-dog eyes were not to be messed with.

"Fine."

The short break between acts ended, and Sergeant Donovan came on stage to announce the next.

"Alright, next we have…" She held out a card, glancing at the name with a surprised look on her face. "…John Watson."

Sherlock's jaw dropped. He turned to where Lisbeth was sitting to confirm what he had just heard, only to find it empty. Sergeant Donovan exited the stage and the curtains opened, to reveal one John Watson and one baby grand piano.

_Where did he even get that_?

John raised his hands over the keys before starting, cracking his fingers slightly. The music began softly, and Sherlock strained to figure out the song. To his surprise, John began singing along with the notes.

_Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry  
_

_You don't know how lovely you are  
_

_I had to find you, tell you I need you  
_

_Tell you I set you apart  
_

_Tell me your secrets, and ask me your questions  
_

_Oh let's go back to the start  
_

_Running in circles, coming up tails  
_

_Heads on a science apart_

Who was he singing about? Sherlock was on the edge of his seat.

_Nobody said it was easy  
_

_It's such a shame for us to part  
_

_Nobody said it was easy  
_

_No one ever said it would be this hard  
_

_Oh, take me back to the start._

He wasn't… talking about Sherlock was he? John began playing the instrumental, only to be joined by Lisbeth on Lestrade's acoustic. Sherlock couldn't recall her playing guitar before.

_I was just guessing at numbers and figures  
_

_Pulling the puzzles apart  
_

_Questions of science, science and progress  
_

_Don't speak as loud as my heart  
_

_And tell me you love me, come back and haunt me  
_

_Oh and I rush to the start  
_

_Running in circles, chasing our tails  
_

_Coming back as we are_

This song… described their relationship perfectly.

_Nobody said it was easy  
_

_Oh it's such a shame for us to part  
_

_Nobody said it was easy  
_

_No one ever said it would be so hard  
_

_I'm going back to the start_

Ooooohhhhhhh 

_Ooooohhhhhhh _

_Ooooohhhhhhh _

_Ooooohhhhhhh _

The music faded out and the entire audience of Yard members stood and clapped. John gave a small wave at them before exiting with Lisbeth.

Even as the officers filed out and things started being packed up, Sherlock sat in his seat. His mind was on auto-repeat, thinking only one thing.

_John loves me back_.


End file.
